Forced Necessity
by Shiver2
Summary: Magneto reflects on his relationship with his daughter, Wanda. It sucks, it's too short, but i still want an opinion on it.


A/N-I've been lazy this summer, this is my first fic for about three months, I get like that. Writing is my escape from school, which really pisses me off because I have trouble writing now. Oh well, I think I wrote this because I personally think Wanda Maximoff and Magneto are two of the most misunderstood chars on the show. I mean, most people have just written Wanda off as a physco bitch even though there's a lot more there. And Magneto is always the bad guy even though he does genuinely want to help his fellow mutants, just not always to humanity's liking.(except in one comic series that I'm especially fond of. That also features a Barbie doll playing Sabertooth. You know who you are.( ) So this is my attempt to put both of these in a better light, Magneto first.  
  
P.S. this is my first ever angst fic, so it sucks as I said before, so be nice. And it's really short.  
  
"Forced Necessity"  
  
Eric Lensherr is a proud man, unwilling to admit mistake or defeat. He has taken it upon himself to lead his mutant kin to the next step of evolution in which they take their rightful place as rulers of all. A hard, harsh, path it is and promises to always be until this goal is reached. Especially against an enemy as cruel as humanity, ignorant apes who think they deserve the planet just because they were here first. Every step has been for mutants, every blow taken in stride, every sacrifice he reminds himself of the necessity, one day it will be worth it, one day he will be rewarded. The others will agree with him and thank him. Yes, as long as it was in the name of the forward journey it was right.  
  
So, why did he lament her? His little girl with her mother's face and his blue eyes, her hair endearing always unkempt, and standing confidently despite her small frame. Nearly driven insane by him.  
  
At this point, his hand always slams down in rage a top some unlucky inanimate object. No! It had been necessary, the girl had become uncontrollable. She had become too much of a bother, a danger even to herself and others. With those powers what was he suppose to do?!  
  
'But she is your daughter and practically Madga reborn in face and perhaps mind as well if you hadn't warped it. Couldn't you have shown a little pity, or at least mercy?' the quiet, gnawing voice of guilt always asks, as if it knows everything.  
  
He now shifts uncomfortably whether in chair or standing, maybe swishing the drink in his hand.  
  
'I cannot allow myself to become sentimental about one, when there are so many others to think off.' He defends himself in the face of onslaught. 'She would have taken too much from the cause, she would have needed my valuable time that would be selfish for me to pander on he, and it was hard to reach her even then.' After all, anyone sensible that no one life is more valuable than several more, we all must make sacrifices for the good of all. He remembers back now, to some pleasant memory before the family fell into disarray. Maybe an idle picnic on a summer day, or a rousing day at the park where he would delight his twins by standing some distance away and swing them on the swings with his powers. Or maybe back to the last time she told him she loved him when he had tucked her in to sleep.  
  
Now he would bow his head slightly as regret would join guilt to nibble at his inwards. Could things ever be like that again? Could she be his child once more? No, even now, as her shattered mind was kept satisfied with false gestures of love he still felt that wall. He had seen the look in her cobalt eyes that seemed to see right through him, as if the only thing that kept her heart from screaming "Enemy!" were those planted memories. Seeds of deception he knew, but necessary to keep her quiet, to stop her hunt. They even made her happy, those seeds of deception, of necessity.  
  
Now the trip would end, with that uncertain justification. That constant, nagging voice still dragging on his conscious always leading him back to this ritual. Every ritual calls for a set end and here was this one's he always whispers that name, of the one he loved, wronged, and cannot face.  
  
"Wanda, my little girl." 


End file.
